


Dancing With Death

by silverskyfullofstars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, His Last Vow, Not Adlock, References to Drugs, The Reichenbach Fall, don't be fooled by the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverskyfullofstars/pseuds/silverskyfullofstars
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is no stranger to Death. He has met its shadowy figure on many occasions, in many different guises. He has come close to the edge, but never has he fallen.Rated Teen & Up for mentions of drug use.





	Dancing With Death

Sherlock Holmes is no stranger to Death. He has met its shadowy figure on many occasions, in many different guises. He has come close to the edge, but never has he fallen.

 

There are the times he comes upon Death as a stranger, when it takes him by surprise. It comes when he is walking the streets of London at night, for no other purpose than to calm his brain. Then, it will take the form of a figure, wrapped in a coat of darkness, beckoning him to follow. _Come_ , it says. _I know you’re bored. Leave this world and dance with me instead_. There are times, in years past, when he would have accepted this offer. But now, he pauses. Remembers home. Would he do that to them? Never.

He walks on.

 

There are times he comes to Death as an enemy. Then, he must deceive Death itself. He comes to Death, seemingly as a friend. _Well?_   he asks. _I am here. Will you take me?_   Death smiles, delighted at the prospect of a willing victim. But every time, he escapes its grasp. Each time, he betrays Death, stepping back from the precipice. He jumped, he fell, he died, but it was not. He returned from Death’s front door, having never raised his hand to knock. Later, the bullet came. It cut into him with the sharp, quick click of gunfire, blood blooming from his chest in bubbling bursts. He opened Death’s door that day, but was brought back from the threshold by a power far greater than Death’s. But that is a story for another time.

 

There are the times he comes to Death as a lover, looking for something to break the monotony of his boredom. These are the days he dances with Death, an intricate swirl of steps back and forth, from Life to Death through the grey in between. These are the days when Death takes her form, looking for a way to break his bravery. But Death has no concept of change, and changed he is. The face of The Woman holds no romantic interest for him, no desire to move past the dance floor. She is only a puzzle, a game, a partner in a mental game of chess. Death should know better than to try to entice a man who is detached from his heart. Sherlock Holmes flirts with Death for the fun of it, and the elation and excitement of leaving unscathed.

 

But there are the times he comes to Death as a desperate beggar, held prisoner by the only thing that grants him freedom. Then, Death watches gleefully as its shadow is reflected in the silver of the needle, its power mirrored in the drugs coursing through human veins. This is when he is closest to Death, when he is hanging by his hands from the cliffs, the demon of his addiction standing above him. He has fallen from the cliff before, lucky to have been caught by safe, warm hands before he has slipped to far. But the danger of running to Death for comfort is that Death has no mercy. It slips into his mind, convincing him to let go completely, to lose himself in a grey haze, and never wake up until it fades to black. Leave the light behind, follow the path into the darkness, and cross the threshold forever, to the hall where Death’s true dance awaits.

 

Luckily, there is always light for Sherlock Holmes. There is always something to return him to warmth. There is light streaming from ocean-blue eyes and short blond hair, reflecting back to his own blue-green irises and dark curls. There is light leaping from smiling lips, coaxing laughter into the mouth of the man who has sworn to himself never to be swayed by light again. But here he is, standing in the grey between the light of Life and the darkness of Death. In the end, it is light who manages to pull him back. It always has been. Sherlock’s conductor of light will always be there.

 

_John Watson. You keep me right._


End file.
